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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28830201">Rough Country</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/andhow/pseuds/andhow'>andhow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fluff and Angst, POV Charles, POV Original Female Character, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:56:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,626</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28830201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/andhow/pseuds/andhow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Smith takes a seemingly harmless job in Valentine.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Original Female Character(s), Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Rough Country</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>1903, Outskirts of Van Horn</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Charles Smith awoke to the wind hissing through his tent, and cold rain spattering his face. He rose to poke at the sodden remains of the campfire, pulling his coat collar closed against the grey morning. The embers of the fire had long since gone out, with no hope of coaxing them back. Charles took the percolator and retreated to his tent.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The rain drummed against the tired fabric. The hole he had never gotten around to repairing begun to weep a steady stream onto Charles’ bedroll. He poured the stale remains of yesterday's coffee into his dented, tin cup and draped his bedroll across his shoulders. From his battered shelter, Charles watched the wind carry the remnants of his campfire away. He gently pressed his fingers to his throbbing cheekbone. The bookie had warned against throwing another fight. He would have to move on again, and The Lone Wolf was fast running out of road.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Charles hummed with pleasure because Elise Duras had been in his dream last night. He took a sip of stale coffee and let a scene from his dream slide forward. They had been in St. Denis, all those years ago, when it felt like they were poised to own the world. If he didn’t force it, didn’t focus too much on it, the warm feeling could last his whole day.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I. 1899, Horseshoe Overlook</p><p>“Listen, I’m just asking you to think about it,” Arthur said. He propped his foot against a crate, shifting his weight towards Charles and the campfire. "This here is a <em>real</em> job, payin' <em>real</em> money."</p><p>Charles grunted, running his fingers through the fletching of an arrow he had been crafting. "Real money, huh?" </p><p>“That’s what the sheriff told me."</p><p>"You know that type of work ain't for me." </p><p>"But this ain't a bounty, this is just some rich New Yorker tryin' to find his missing brother."</p><p>"I don't know, Arthur. Why don't you take it?" Charles shook his head. </p><p>"You're the best damn tracker in camp, Charles. Hell, probably in this whole state."</p><p>"Something about it just doesn't add up." He tapped the arrow tip against his knee. </p><p>"What's the harm? I bet you're not even gone the full week. Couple o' nights sleeping rough with the wolves howling will have this fella running back to the city," Arthur chuckled. </p><p> "This ain't a tracking job, it's a fool's errand." </p><p>"But this here's a fool with money, Charles. You're tellin' me of all the fools you've ever parted from their money—"</p><p> "Well, well, well," Sean drawled. He plopped onto one of the crates beside Arthur, newly opened beer in hand. "What's this about a <em>real</em> job, now?"</p><p>Arthur dropped his hand onto Charles' shoulder. "Think about it," he repeated. </p><p>"Aw, c'mon!" Sean shouted at Arthur's retreating back. "Are you going to cut me in, then?" He asked Charles.  </p><p> Charles returned to pruning the fletching, pointedly ignoring Sean.  </p><p>"Miserable pair of bastards you two are. Per usual, seems I'm the only one in this camp interested in making any <em>real</em> money," Sean groused before taking a long swig. </p><p> "A week is a long time with a New Yorker," Charles muttered. </p><p>II.</p><p>Charles hadn’t intended to ride out to Valentine the next day. But after a morning spent grimacing through Pearson’s burnt coffee, and another suspiciously vague story about the Navy, he found himself saddling Taima and heading into town. It wasn’t that he regretted joining the gang, so much as over a decade of fending for himself had made the transition into being constantly surrounded by other people…difficult. Between the bawdy singalongs, drunken brawling, and everything else in between there was never a moment of peace. </p><p>He sat on a bench outside of the Valentine general store, clutching the letter that the Sheriff had passed him. Just as Arthur had said, a gentleman from New York requested a guide up through the Cumberland Forest and into Big Valley. He wrote of a missing brother, a wayward sportsman, whom he hoped to find.</p><p>Charles tucked the letter into the front pocket of his blue-spotted tunic and entered the general store. He had two vices—the nightly beer he nursed before his watch shift, and chocolate. If he was careful, one bar could last him a whole week. He purchased a bar of chocolate, a crisp envelope, and a stamp. </p><p>Carefully, in his tortured script, he wrote out a reply to Mr. Duras on rumpled stationery that he'd done his best to smooth. Charles wrote that he was an experienced outdoorsman willing to escort the gentleman through New Hanover, though he held little hope in finding anyone, this being rough country, and the nights still within winter’s grip. He left his letter with the postman at the train station and was confident in that being the end of it. </p><p>Yet to his surprise, Ms. Grimshaw passed him a reply across the campfire several days later—Mr. Duras was due on the noon train that Friday.</p><p> </p><p>III.</p><p> “Well, that’s certainly different” Hosea declared after Charles explained the job to him. “Still, there’s no denying we need the money.” He folded over his newspaper with a crisp flick. </p><p> An unfamiliar lightness fluttered in his chest as he made his final preparations to leave. Charles had found himself rereading the letters, tracing the embossed letterhead, and delicately looping cursive, as though it would reveal the secrets of the mysterious Mr. Duras. All Sheriff Malloy had been able to tell him was that the man was a French businessman, and apparently suffering from a familial lack of directional awareness. </p><p> He brushed down Taima and fed her an apple from his hand. His burn had finally healed, though it had left a webbed scar across his palm. </p><p> "So, you took the job?" Arthur asked as he slung himself into the saddle of his horse. </p><p> "Reckon it's easy money." </p><p>"Ain’t like you'll be missing much here." </p><p> Their eyes tracked the Reverend as he stumbled across camp towards the brush. </p><p> “Gentlemen,” the Reverend slurred as he passed them. </p><p> “Where you headed?” Charles asked. </p><p> “Micah’s holed up somewhere in West Elizabeth planning a job. After that all-mighty disaster in Strawberry,” he sighed. </p><p> “Sounded like a bloodbath from what you told me.” </p><p> “Always seems to go that way with Micah, don’t it?” </p><p> Charles grunted in agreement. They were quiet for a moment and he knew that their thoughts had drifted to the trail of crosses that marked their escape from Blackwater. Karen's laughter erupted from the wagon where the ladies sat mending. Sean soon swaggered away, shooed by Ms. Grimshaw. </p><p> “You regret saving him yet?” Arthur asked with a grin. </p><p> Charles looked up at Arthur with the ghost of a smile. </p><p> “Especially when he sings.” </p><p> </p><p>IV.</p><p> Charles leaned against the wall of the Valentine train station, eyes fixed on the horizon where a dark plume of smoke announced the train’s arrival. It soon pulled into the station with a slow clangor, discharging lean cowboys in dusted jeans, and women in patched workaday dresses. Their hats hung as limply as their worn faces. </p><p>From the front of the train, wearing a crisp forget-me-not dress, stepped a woman with her hair plaited neatly atop her head. She hopped delicately onto the train platform, her eyes drinking in the matchbox station, the bleating sheep in their pens, and the men whose hard stares swiveled towards her. Charles stepped away from the wall, transfixed, his feet possessed of a will of their own.</p><p>The woman cast her gaze about the emptying platform, and when their eyes locked Charles felt as if the air in his lungs were aflame. She set down the small, leather valise she carried and drew a letter from her purse. Charles recognized the handwriting as his own. </p><p> “Monsieur Smith?” She reached out in greeting, and he took her gloved hand as though it were a hatchling he could crush by gripping it too hard. "Elise Duras, enchanté." </p><p> “And Mr. Duras, will he be...uh, joining us?" He cleared his throat, which had suddenly become very dry. </p><p> The young woman cocked her head and furrowed her brow in puzzlement. </p><p> "Lucien, the man who I was, um, writing to?” Charles realized he still held her hand and quickly dropped it. </p><p> “Ah. Non. He remains in New York. I apologize for the deception, Monsieur Smith. As a young woman traveling alone I had to be careful." </p><p> “You hired me?" </p><p> "Yes." </p><p> Charles stood rooted before her, mind reeling. </p><p> "Miss, this is very...unusual." He rubbed the nape of his neck. </p><p> "I know Monsieur Smith, and you are under no obligation to continue our arrangement. I can return to the train and continue to St. Denis." </p><p> The train engine hissed as the conductor stoked the fire. </p><p> "But, you see, this is my one chance. My one hope of finding him." </p><p> "All aboard!" The conductor hollered. </p><p> Her green eyes bored into his own, and he found himself having to look away. </p><p> "How's your shooting?" Charles crossed his arms. </p><p> "Fine." The corners of her mouth ticked upwards as she answered him. </p><p> "And you can ride?" </p><p> "Bien sûr, of course." </p><p> Maybe it was the soft way she said his name. Maybe it was how cramped he had felt in camp lately. But despite himself, Charles found that he couldn't refuse her. </p><p> "All right," he murmured. "But this ain't going to be easy."</p><p> "Merci mille fois, Monsieur Smith. A thousand thanks." </p><p> Charles looked to the snowcapped mountains that loomed to the West, those cruel peaks from which the gang had only just descended. The train pulled from the station, and with it, Charles felt thrust back in the wilds of Ambarino, following a trail he could not see the end of.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you so much for reading :)<br/></p></blockquote></div></div>
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